


Disclosures

by RileyC



Series: Gotham Comes to Smallville [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series, DCU - Comicverse, Smallville, Superman - All Media Types, World's Finest (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe Fusion, Angst, Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Identity!Porn, M/M, Parental Health Scare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:47:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A crisis in the Kent family may prod Batman into taking off the cowl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> At update to show off the cover ctbn60 has made for this.

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/silverheels17/8654190020/)

**~ Disclosures ~**

1

Ducking into a quiet corner, Clark responded to the call that had come over his commlink. “This isn’t a good time, Batman.”

_“Why?”_

“I…” Clark shook his head, not sure he was ready to put it into words. “You know, most people begin a conversation with something like hello, how are you.” It was a blatant stall but there was a kind of fleeting comfort in bantering with Batman.

_“This isn’t a conversation.”_

No, of course not; heaven forbid Batman would ever call him just to talk. “Yeah, I know,” Clark said, and just like that the fear crept back. Maybe going out to divert a comet on a collision course with Earth, or something equally catastrophic would provide a momentary respite from the much more intimate devastation he was helpless to prevent. “What’s the emergency?”

 _“There’s no emergency. I just wanted…”_ Uncharacteristically, Batman sounded unsure, as if he had stumbled upon something unexpected. In the time they had been working together with the Justice League, Clark could count the number of times he had witnessed that on one hand, and he’d have at least a thumb left over. Maybe a pinky, too. _“What’s wrong?”_

Clark knew if he was holding an actual telephone he would be staring at the receiver in disbelief at this point. Was it too much to hope Batman’s interest really was personal? Probably; yet every now and then he got the sense that, whoever lurked behind that cowl, Batman wasn’t as cold and indifferent as everyone thought. Scary, yes; aggravating beyond belief, absolutely; but a lot of the rest of it might just be another kind of protective armor. Wishful thinking, Clark supposed, but he wanted it to be true.

“It’s my father. He,” his voice caught for a moment as images of Jonathan Kent collapsing in his arms, gasping for breath, overwhelmed him, “he’s dying.” No, actually saying it out loud didn’t help a bit.

_“Your father?”_

“Yes, I have a father,” Clark snapped back. “Is that so hard to believe?” He didn’t know why he lashed out at Batman. None of this was his fault. Batman didn’t know about Smallville; he didn’t even know about Clark Kent. “I’m sorry, I—”

Batman ignored his outburst. _“What happened?”_

Absurdly grateful for Batman’s no-nonsense manner, Clark said, “It’s his heart. Ma says he hadn’t been feeling well for quite awhile. She wanted him to go see a doctor but he told her he’d be all right, and then today he just…” Clark could feel his throat closing up and had to pause for a second and had to swallow to clear it. “I’m sorry, I’m babbling.”

_“You’re not. Go on.”_

Clark blinked rapidly, as much to keep any tears at bay as in surprise at Batman’s downright concerned tone of voice. “The doctors here, they’re doing all they can, but he needs some kind of heart valve that they say is just in the experimental stage. And I can’t do anything. All my powers, Batman, and I can’t do one thing to help the man who…” Damn it, he was choking up again. “Look, I need to get back to him. I don’t think,” he cleared his throat, “I don’t think he has much longer.”

_“Where are you? Metropolis General?”_

Surprised again, Clark said, “Yes. How did you—”

_“Your father will have that valve, Superman. Don’t worry about it.”_

Don’t worry? “What are you talking about? Batman?” He tapped the commlink, hard, but there was only silence.

He took a minute to compose himself, to brace himself before he went back to his father’s hospital room. It had helped to share some of what he was feeling, even with Batman of all people—maybe especially with Batman. He didn’t understand that last promise, though. It wasn’t like Batman to make a pledge he couldn’t possibly keep, not unless he had some pull with Wayne Bio-Tech that Clark didn’t know about. The doctors had said that was the only place this valve existed but that it had not yet been approved and made available for use. Not even Batman could cut through that kind of red tape.

Ready as he would ever be, Clark let himself back into the room. Nothing had changed. Tubes and wires still connected his father to an array of machines that were the only thing keeping him alive.  His father still looked incredibly frail, helpless in a way Clark could not have imagined as he struggled for every breath even with the machines to help him. His mother still looked numb. At a glance, Martha Kent appeared remote, detached from everything. It was only when you looked into her eyes and saw the fear that lurked there that you realized she was using every ounce of strength she possessed not to fall apart.

Clark pulled up another chair to sit beside her. He carefully patted her hand where it rested on the bed near Jonathan’s. “Can I get you anything?”

Martha shook her head. “I’m fine. Do you have to leave?”

“No. It was a false alarm.”

Martha nodded and clasped his hand, tight. She might have been holding on for dear life.

~*~

“…and if you need _anything_ , anything at all, Smallville,” Lois said, “you call me. Okay?”

Clark nodded. “I will. I promise.”

She nodded back and tried to put on her usual brave face but couldn’t quite manage it this time. “God,” she swiped at a tear, “I can’t believe this is happening. I always thought he’d live forever.”

“Me, too,” Clark said, unashamed of the tremble in his voice. He and Lois hadn’t worked out as lovers but their friendship was rock solid. One of the things he treasured about that was that he didn’t have to hide anything from her anymore.

She rubbed his shoulder and looked lost for a moment. She found her balance in practicalities and told him, “Oh, I got hold of Chloe and Oliver. They’re in Hawaii, but Ollie was getting the plane ready while we were talking, and Perry says—“

“They don’t have to do that.”

“—that you’re to take as much time as you need,” she ploughed on, “and even Cat Grant said,” here her voice cracked and her expression began to crumple, “said to tell you she was sorry. Damn it, Clark…”

“Shh, shh.” He reached out to gather her close, glad he could comfort someone--and steal a little bit for himself.

After awhile Lois pushed back, a look of endearing vexation on her face as she brushed more tears away and then smacked him on the shoulder. “I’m supposed to be comforting you.”

Somehow he managed a smile. “You are,” he assured her. He handed her a handkerchief. “Here, your face is a mess.”

A more familiar spark back in her eyes, she said, “Wow, knock my socks off with the compliments.” But she managed a tiny smile, too, albeit one that trembled around the edges.

The elevator doors opened and they jumped out of the way as a team of grim-faced professionals got out, some of them in surgical scrubs as they pushed a gurney down the hallway. Lois put a hand to her mouth and shot a look at Clark, but he didn’t have any better idea than her what was going on. He wasn’t even sure what to feel although dread was high in the running. They hurried back down the hall just as Martha was politely but firmly bustled out of Jonathan’s room.

“Ma, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Who are those people?”

Clark started to say that he didn’t know, either, but then one of the team turned and he caught a glimpse of a logo on their jacket. WAYNE BIOTECH. _Wayne Biotech?_ “No, it couldn’t be,” he whispered.

His mother and Lois both stared at him, alight with curiosity. “What couldn’t be?” Lois asked first.

“I—I’m not sure.” It might just be a wild coincidence, he thought. Yet he knew it wasn’t. He didn’t know _how_ he could be so certain, he just was.

Before they could press him with anymore questions, Dr. Ortega, the cardiologist who had been treating Jonathan, came out to speak to them. “Mrs. Kent, Clark, I don’t want to give you false hopes.” Her expression was as sober as before but Clark thought the grimness had lightened somewhat and that there was a glimmer of excitement in her eyes. “Do you remember the experimental heart valve we told you about?”

Martha nodded. “Yes. You said it wasn’t available.”

“I didn’t think it was. It turns out it has just been approved for use and,” now she let herself smile, “we have it.”

Looking like she wanted to believe but was afraid to, Martha said, “Will it save him?”

Solemn once more, Dr. Ortega said, “We don’t know, Mrs. Kent. He has a better chance than he did ten minutes ago, that’s all we can tell you.”

“Are you going to operate now?” Clark asked.

“Yes. I will be assisting Dr. Jack Doyle. He’s the top cardiac surgeon in the country and handpicked by Wayne Biotech to perform the operation. Mr. Kent could not be in better hands.”

As she spoke, there was a flurry of activity in the room and then the gurney was wheeled out, this time carrying Jonathan. Clark was glad of Dr. Ortega’s assurances. Without them, he would have thought it was already too late, his father looked that bad.

Martha clutched at Jonathan’s hand as the gurney passed on it way to the elevator, and then started to sag against Lois as the doors closed. Lois eased her down on a chair, murmuring comforts to her. “Clark, get her some water.”

“No, no, I’m all right. I just…” Martha sighed deeply and sat up straight. “It was just a moment.”

“You’re allowed to have more than a moment, Mrs. K,” Lois said. She looked fiercely certain of that.

“It’s all right,” Martha insisted, and patted her hand. “I think I’d like to go to the chapel for a little while.” She started to get up but faltered a moment and leaned heavily on Clark for a second as he got an arm around her. “Oh, Clark,” she looked at him clearly for the first time in hours, the fear in her eyes painfully raw, “what will we do without him?”

“We’re not going to have to find out, Ma. He’s going to be all right.”

“That’s right,” Lois chipped in. “You heard Dr. Ortega. Mr. K’s in the best hands possible. Now come on, let’s get you to that chapel. Somewhere peaceful and quiet is just what you need right now.”

Clark lingered for a moment, tempted to look in on the operation. What if his x-ray vision interfered with something, though? What if the sight of his father being cut open was more than even a Man of Steel could take?

“Clark,” Lois called back to him, “are you coming?”

“Right behind you,” he said, and easily caught up. Somewhere peaceful would do him some good, too.

~*~

As the bats _skreeked_ by overhead, Bruce pulled off his cowl and sank back in his chair with a weary sigh. He felt like he’d just taken on his entire rogue’s gallery, plus Darkseid. He would rather take on his entire rogue’s gallery, plus Darkseid, than have to call in all the favors required to cut through the maddening tangle of red-tape necessary to free up the heart valve.  Still, he had to admit this was one of those rare times it actually felt good to wield the power and influence at the disposal of Bruce Wayne.

Alfred materialized at his side bearing a tray with hot coffee and sandwiches. “Were we successful, sir?” he asked as he poured out a cup of strong, black coffee and passed it to Bruce.

“The valve is en route to Metropolis. Anything else is out of my hands.” He didn’t like that feeling of helplessness anymore than Superman did. At least he was accustomed to his abilities being finite, he thought, remembering the frustration and pain in Superman’s voice at the knowledge that all of his vast powers could not save his father.

“Alfred?”

“Sir?”

He took a sip of coffee as he looked at the computer screen, an array of photographs and newspaper articles on display there. All of them to do with the Kents and Smallvile, Kansas. He studied a photo of Jonathan Kent, robust and bursting with pride for the teenage boy beside him—his adoptive son, Clark, age sixteen and already as tall as his father. That would have been about fifteen years ago. “Do you think it’s any easier to lose a parent when you’re thirty?”

“There are some blows, I fear, which land hard no matter our age,” Alfred said quietly as he looked at the screen. “I suspect that a friend who has intimate knowledge of such a loss is of tremendous help, however.”

Bruce shrugged, uncomfortable with the idea of Superman— _Clark Kent_ —turning to him for any kind of comfort. He wasn’t at all sure he had any to give. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“We shall, yes,” Alfred said, and gave his shoulder a light pat. “You are quite certain this young man is Superman?” he asked as he peered intently at the photographs.

“Judge for yourself.” Bruce put down his sandwich and pulled up a picture of Clark Kent and another of Superman, in almost identical poses, and put them side by side.

“My word,” Alfred murmured as he watched Bruce superimpose Clark Kent onto Superman, the thick-rimmed glasses the only incongruity. “Most remarkable. To think he’s been among us all this time, in this…Smallville, is it?”

Bruce nodded. “I’m not sure he’d be Superman if he hadn’t grown up in Smallville.”

“The Kents must be almost as remarkable as their son, sir.”

Bruce glanced at him, then back at the screen. “Yes, I think they must be.” There were a score of things he would have liked to ask them. How had Superman come into their care, for instance? He had formed several hypotheses but wouldn’t be surprised to learn they were all incorrect. Surely the future Man of Steel hadn’t simply turned up in their cabbage patch one morning, though.

“One would scarcely know what question to ask them first, sir, if one were so fortunate as to meet them.”

Bruce looked at Alfred with a slight smile. “I doubt they’re in the habit of disclosing information like that to just anyone who happens to ask.”

“With all due modesty, sir, you are hardly ‘just anyone.’ Will you go?” Alfred asked, tapping straight into the raging turmoil in Bruce.

“I…” He shook his head. “I doubt that would be wise.” The fact he wanted to go to Metropolis, wanted to meet Clark Kent, meant it had to be a bad idea. A self-indulgent one, at least. “He has enough to deal with.”

“Yes,” Alfred said in a brisk tone of voice that didn’t fool Bruce for a moment, “I’m sure the very last thing the young gentleman would want at such a time is a supportive friend as a confidant.”

Bruce didn’t roll his eyes—he had to set an example for Dick and Tim, after all—but he wanted to. “He doesn’t even know I’m Bruce Wayne.”

“Is there a better occasion to tell him?”          

“Maybe not.” He sighed, annoyed with his indecision. Annoyed he had initiated this secrecy in the first place. He suspected the Martian Manhunter already knew the truth, and Green Arrow, in particular, had called him out on it on several times. _“You want us to trust you but you won’t show us your face?”_ “I need to think about it, Alfred.”

“Very good, sir. I would caution that you not take too long, however.” Alfred aimed a significant look at the screen. “Even supermen cannot stop time.”

No, no they couldn’t, Bruce thought as he took in the moments frozen there on film; captured for an instant even as time inexorably rolled on.

“Something amusing, sir?” Alfred asked as Bruce let out a soft, rueful laugh.

“I was just thinking how this all started because I wanted to ask Superman if he knew why Wonder Woman had swapped monitor duty with The Flash.” Decision made, he stood up. “Tell Dick and Tim what’s going on when they get back from patrol,” he said, already on his way up the stairs to the mansion.

“With pleasure, Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice trailed after him.

~*~

The chapel had worked some kind of magic. Martha had drawn an easy breath at last and seemed to take some comfort in talking about Jonathan. Lois was a willing audience as Martha told stories that Clark had heard many times before—stories that he was amazingly pleased to listen to again. The familiar reminiscences, details he could have repeated word for word, brought a sense of calm and balance that was wonderfully soothing.

As his mother finally ran out of steam, dozing against Lois’s shoulder, Clark quietly stood up and whispered, “I need to go make a call. I’ll be right back.”

Lois nodded and gave him a thumbs up.

Clark smiled and let himself out of the chapel and headed outside. Time had blurred so badly he was surprised to find it was full dark now. The hot, sultry day had been washed away by a rainstorm at some point and he hadn’t even noticed. He stood there and breathed deeply of the cool, damp air, sorely tempted to take to the sky for a few minutes. There was something about flying that always helped clear his mind like nothing else could.

He remained grounded for now, however, and found a secluded spot to activate the commlink. “Batman? Are you there?” There was no response. “If you are there, I want to say thank you. I don’t know how you did it, but…it means more than you can know.” He sighed, not knowing what to make of his mysterious friend.

As he started back to the hospital entrance he stopped and looked around. He’d just had the oddest sensation that someone was staring at him. A quick scan of the area revealed no one lurking in the shadows. With a slight shrug, he rubbed the back of his neck and went back inside. As he reached the door of the chapel, he experienced the same sensation and this time caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. This time he pursued it and was positive he was about to catch up with whoever it was, only to just barely catch himself in time before crashing into, and through, a window. In fact, it was a dead end, he realized as he looked around. The only way out was that window and—he pushed it open and leaned out to look at the area below, just as an ambulance pulled in—that seemed pretty unlikely. Maybe he had imagined it; glimpsed a shadow and magnified it into the return of Zod.

He smiled ruefully at himself, closed the window, and retraced his steps. As he drew near to the chapel once more, he spotted another man there in the corridor, thoroughly engrossed in a poster that explained the importance of annual flu shots. Something about the man, as he briefly glanced Clark’s way, did spark a flash of recognition although there was certainly nothing suspicious about him. About Clark’s age and height, the stranger wore an expensive-looking suit that had been cut to emphasize broad shoulders and slim hips. His hair was black, a denser shade than Clark’s, and perfectly styled with not a strand out of place. The eyes that warily observed him approach were a lighter shade of blue than his own and set in an aristocratic, handsome face. It was that patrician quality that made everything click into place.

“You’re Bruce Wayne.” The Prince of Gotham in the flesh. “I’m Clark Kent,” he said and stepped forward now, hand held out. “It’s my father you’re helping. Well, your medical team, that is.”

Bruce Wayne hesitated briefly before he clasped Clark’s hand. “Really? I’m afraid I’m only here for the press conference.”

Disappointed, and not sure why, Clark nodded. He supposed it didn’t really matter if the notorious playboy was here for some self-serving purpose. The important thing was that he had funded the research that made this heart valve a reality. “Well, I just want to say…” He faltered a moment, the usual words striking him as horribly inadequate. “Thank you doesn’t seem enough for what you’ve made possible, Mr. Wayne, but—thank you.”

Wayne replied with a brisk nod. He turned away and then glanced back, some storm of indecision playing out in his eyes. After another moment he sighed and nodded to himself again as though he had reached some momentous decision. The next words he spoke were uttered in a different voice, but one that Clark would know anywhere in the universe. “You never have to thank me, Clark. I told you not to worry.”

Clark’s world promptly turned upside down for the second time in twenty-four hours.

=======

2

Bruce frowned as Clark raised a large hand and held it an inch from his upper face. “What are you doing?”

 “Just making sure,” Clark said, grinning as he lowered his hand. “It’s really you.”

Bruce glowered back at him. Feeling oddly self-conscious, naked in a way he wasn’t used to, Bruce said, “It shouldn’t be that astonishing, all things considered.” He looked Clark up and down and found it was one thing to know in the abstract but something else again to see it in person. The combination of slouch-shouldered posture and cheap suit, black hair brushed back severely, and a pair of black-rimmed dorky glasses that dialed down the brilliance of unearthly blue eyes shouldn’t have worked. It should have had the look of an obvious deception. It didn’t. “It’s like a magic act, misdirecting the eye with smoke and mirrors,” he murmured as he took it all in.

“Something like. People see what they expect to,” Clark said. He frowned as Bruce reached over to slide off the glasses and examine them. “Excuse me?”

“What happens if someone else tries them on and discovers they’re just clear glass?”

Clark took the glasses back from him. “Most people,” he gave Bruce a dubious look, “understand this concept of personal space.”

Bruce took that mean he shouldn’t reach over and tug the S-curl into place. Not that he’d planned to. “I imagine you have questions,” he said with studied diffidence.

Clark nodded. “I imagine I do.”

As he appeared inclined to take his time asking them, however, Bruce opted for the Band-Aid approach: rip it off and get it over with. “You and Smallville have been on my radar for a long time. I suspected who you were before we met. I have been reasonably certain since then.”

Clark alternated between surprise, suspicion, and disbelief. Bruce made a note to leave him off Justice League missions that might require a good poker face. “Am I the only you’ve stalked?”

“It wasn’t necessary to gather _intel_ on the rest of them, not on that level.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It’s an observation.” Bruce shrugged, uncomfortable with the conversation. He had known things would go this way. “You’re, shall we say, an unusual case.”

“I’m still not sure that’s a compliment.” Behind the glib-sounding words was a thoughtful look as Clark rapidly reviewed and added things up. “You compiled an extensive, shall we say, _dossier_ because you thought I might be a threat?”

Since he’d already figured it out, Bruce only replied with a slight shrug.

“Do you still think I could be a threat?”

“Of your own free will?” Bruce shook his head. “No, I don’t.” He would hardly be here otherwise.

Clark faced him squarely then, searching his face. “And if my will was ever subverted—what would you do?”

Bruce met him just as directly. “Lay my hands on the nearest chunk of green Kryptonite.”

Those blue eyes widened in surprise and Bruce braced himself for any range of predicted reactions. Or, almost. The broad, delighted grin that Clark beamed at him was somewhat unexpected. “I’ll count on it,” Clark said, and there was a grim and haunted look behind the smile that told Bruce those words were not spoken lightly.

And if he had still had any doubts about this man, Bruce knew this odd exchange would have erased them for once and for all.

“I guess you have questions, too,” Clark said.

“A few. There’s no rush.”

Clark gave him a skeptical look, as if he was having some trouble matching up Bruce Wayne with Batman. “You’re going easy on me?”

“Did you think I’d dangle you off a building until you coughed up all your secrets?”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“You think I couldn’t?” Bruce said, returning the challenge and raising it.

Right on the edge of a laugh, Clark just as suddenly grew somber. Bruce understood immediately. Here Clark was, bantering with Batman, while his father’s life hung in the balance. What kind of a son was he?

“Clark…” Tentative, positive it should be anyone but him in this position, Bruce reached over to touch Clark’s elbow. “You’ve done all you can possibly can. I don’t know your father, but I don’t think the man who raised you would want you beating yourself up for things beyond your control.”

Clark bit his lip and nodded. “He wouldn’t. It’s just…” He shrugged and looked vulnerable in a way Bruce had never seen him. “It scares me sometimes, how fragile you all are; defenseless against things I can’t get my hands on.”

 Bruce hesitated a moment, not sure it would really help to put things in perspective just now. There were events that defied statistics. Still, it was worth a shot. “Between the years 1348 and 1350 it is estimated that the Black Death killed thirty to sixty percent of Europe’s population. The Spanish Influenza pandemic of 1918 killed upwards of one hundred million people. That’s not even getting into catastrophic events further back that nearly brought about our extinction. Yet we’re still here.”

Clark stared at him, a faint glimmer of disbelief in his eyes. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Bruce folded his arms across his chest, longing for the folds of his cape, and frowned back at him. “It was meant to demonstrate that while we may not be invulnerable neither are we delicate flowers apt to wilt at the first stiff breeze.” He sat down on the small sofa, hyperaware as Clark sat beside him, turned to face him so that their knees were touching. He rested a hand on his knee, as if to push Clark away, but didn’t actually complete the move. “My father was a doctor. He explained to me once that the hardest part of his job was learning to accept that, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t save every patient.”

“Your father. Bruce…” Clark looked at him with entirely too much understanding. Bruce Wayne was a famous public figure; of course Clark Kent, ace reporter, would have heard the bare bones story.

“What kept him going,” Bruce continued as if Clark hadn’t interrupted, “was what he called the marvel of our resiliency. The worst thing possible happens and we think we can’t cope, can’t go on, life will never be the same again. And it isn’t, Clark, it never is the same again, but,” he faltered a moment, dearly wanting to be anywhere else right now, “but we do go on, we do rise above it. It becomes something that defines us, but not the only thing that does.”

Still watching him so carefully, Clark asked, “How long did it take you to learn that?”

A wry and rueful twist to his lips, Bruce said, “It’s a work in progress.”

Clark reached over to lay a hand over Bruce’s where it still rested on his knee. “Thank you.”

Bruce looked at that hand. “For what?” He should pull away, get some distance between them. He was far too close to the edge of  some event with the potential to be truly calamitous.

Just as Bruce would have pulled away, however, Clark squeezed his hand and smiled at him—honest, sweet, and hopeful—and said, “For being here. For being you.” And Bruce knew he had already tumbled over the edge to his doom.

As cataclysms went, it was remarkably pleasant.

~*~

“What on earth could be keeping Clark?” Martha fretted. “Did he say where he was going?”

Lois shook her head. “Just that he had to make a call.” That had been almost half an hour ago, though. “Do you want me to go look for him?”

“Would you, dear? He should be here when,” Martha bit her lip and faltered, the brave face she had tried to put on starting to crumble, “when we find out.”

Lois hugged her tight. “Everything’s going to come out right, Mrs. K. I know it.”

Martha nodded and tried to smile. The fear gnawing at her wasn’t far off, though. Lois wished she had more than words to offer, that she could _do_ something to make it right. Even though she and Clark hadn’t worked out, she would always feel a powerful connection to this family and fight tooth and nail for them in any way she could.

“I’ll be right back,” she said and hurried up the aisle. If Clark was just out rescuing kittens… Maybe that’s what he needed to do, though. If she was frustrated at not being able to do anything, Clark had to be out of his mind at being so helpless at a time like this.

There was something else going on with him, though. Or at least, he had a secret he hadn’t shared with her yet, and that hadn’t happened in a long time. His reaction to the Wayne Biotech people turning up had been, well, strange. If the General was in Jonathan Kent’s place and this medical miracle device suddenly turned up out of the blue, after the doctors had told her it wasn’t available, Lois would have been knocked for a loop. Clark had been surprised, but not like that. No, Clark had acted as if he had been told the cavalry was coming but he hadn’t believed it would get there in time.

Lois knew how the world worked. The clout it would take to free up that heart valve, the strings that had to be pulled and backs scratched, not just anyone could do that. Doors like that only opened to someone right at the top. Also, and she didn’t mean to be cold-blooded about it, but if those doors opened it would more usually be for someone like the General, not a farmer in Smallville, Kansas.

Unless, of course, the person wielding all of that clout happened to know that the farmer in Smallville was Superman’s dad. Insider information like that could elevate Jonathan Kent above popes and presidents. Which was exactly as it should be as far as Lois was concerned. Although if she knew Jonathan at all, he’d be all _aw shucks_ and embarrassed about it. Just like Clark.

So, what resident of Gotham City had the power to make Wayne Enterprises and other institutions jump at a snap of his fingers _and_ was in a position to know that mild-mannered Clark Kent was Superman? The list of candidates who met all the criteria was a narrow one. In fact, there was exactly one name she put on it. Well, technically two.

As she rounded a corner and spotted a sitting area, Lois ducked back, moved to take a couple of seconds for observation. There were two men over there, seated close together on a small sofa, heads bent towards each other as they whispered. She instantly recognized Clark even though his back was to her. As for the other one, well, she would have given herself a high five if her attention hadn’t become fixated on how they were holding hands.

All right, _that_ was unexpected. Good to know she could still be surprised, though.

It took her another half second to work out how she wanted to play this, then she blew around the corner, calling, “Clark! Where have you been? Do you really think this is the right time to be out rescuing kittens? Who’s this?”

Then she had to fight to keep a straight face at how quickly they jumped apart. _Oh yeah, nothing going on here._

“Ah, umm,” Clark was on his feet, flustered and fumbling as he made the introductions, “Lois Lane, Bruce Wayne. Bruce – Lois,” he waved back and forth between them.

“Enchanted, I’m sure,” Bruce said, no indication he was even slightly ruffled. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, the very embodiment of debonair charm.

Caught between amusement and disbelief, Lois threw Clark a smug look. “See, Smallville? This is how you impress a lady.” It was a lot of hot air, of course, but she had to admit that Gotham’s Prince did have a way about him.

Then Bruce gave her an apologetic look and said, “Oh, sorry, I meant _you_ must be overcome meeting _me._ Most people are.”

Lois fixed him with a hard stare. “Are they really?” Either her guesswork was way off the mark or this guy was the world’s most consummate actor. Right at the moment, she wasn’t ready to call it either way.

As if he was anxious to bridge an uncomfortable moment, Clark said, “Bruce— I mean, _Mr. Wayne’s_ company is responsible for the heart valve, Lois. He’s here to see how everything goes.”

“Racking up points for another humanitarian of the year award, Mr. Wayne?” Lois asked, the picture of innocence. She scored herself another win when, just for a split second, she caught a flash of annoyed suspicion behind Bruce Wayne’s blandly polished veneer.

“One does what one can, Ms. Blaine.”

“Lane.”

“Of course. May I call you Chloris?”

Tempted to kick him, Lois settled for looking daggers at him. It was right on the tip of her tongue to ask if she could call him Batman, but she bit down on it and smiled sweetly as Clark got a panicky look on his face.“It’s Lois, Mr. Wayne. Lois Lane. And I’d just be thrilled to pieces if you would give me an exclusive interview.” She fluttered her eyelashes for extra effect.

She had the satisfaction of watching him shoot a look at Clark then, silently imploring, _A little help here?_ She definitely didn’t imagine the look of relief as his phone went off. “Excuse me, Ms. Lane, Clark,” he said as he looked at the number, “but I have to take this. Call my office, Ms. Lane, we’ll set something up,” he said as he got out of there as fast as he courteously could.

“What was that about?” Clark asked.

“Just following my instincts.” Lois linked her arm through Clark’s and steered him back to the chapel. “So how do you know Bruce Wayne?”

“I don’t. We just now met.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Really? You didn’t look like you’ve just met each other.”

“I don’t even know what that means, Lois.”

“It means if you had been any closer to him you would have been in his lap.”

“Lois—”

“You know his reputation, right?”

Clark blinked. “His reputation?”

“Shallow, vain, the attention span of a gnat?”

“Based on what?” Clark said, a rumble of irritation in his voice that Lois found extremely interesting. “Idle gossip by people who don’t have anything better to do?”

 “Uh-huh,” she said, and drew it out thoughtfully. “Pretty defensive there, given you just met the guy.”

“His company’s research is saving my father’s life. Isn’t that reason enough to defend him?”

“Sure it is,” Lois said as they reached the chapel. She leaned close and whispered, “Too bad you never mentioned you were into black leather and Kevlar when we were together. Something might have been arranged.” She patted him on the shoulder as she breezed on by him.

Stopped dead in his tracks, Clark stared after her. _“Lois.”_

She glanced back at his scandalized whisper and replied with a cheeky wink and a smile.

===

3

Clark looked over as the elevator doors opened and felt a startled zing of pleasure as Bruce Wayne stepped out, carrying a carton with four cups of coffee. He quickly dropped the pre-millennium issue of _Popular Science_ he’d been looking through and stepped over to meet him.

“I wasn’t sure you were coming back.”

“I had considered it,” Bruce admitted. He glanced around the waiting area. “Where is Ms. Lane?”

Clark grinned. “Perry White called her back to the _Planet_.” He leaned closer to whisper, “She thinks she knows.”

Bruce shot him a sharp look. “And?”

Clark shrugged. “It’s guesswork, but really good guesswork. She can be trusted,” he hastened to add at the dark look that came into Bruce’s eyes.

Bruce’s noncommittal, “Hmm,” was not entirely reassuring. Still, he took a seat in the waiting area and held out one of the coffee cups. “Isn’t your mother here?”

“She’s freshening up,” Clark said as he took the cup. He started to sit beside Bruce but hesitated a moment as he remembered Lois’s ridiculous teasing. Bruce looked at him then, one elegant eyebrow raised, and Clark sat down before he felt anymore foolish. “Thank you for the coffee,” he said and took a sip of the still-warm vanilla latte.

Bruce inclined his head and sipped at his own coffee, a stronger brew from the aroma Clark detected. “How’s she holding up?”

“She’s…holding.” He took another sip, savored the milk-and-vanilla flavor. “She doesn’t want me to worry.”

“But you do anyway.”

He nodded. “If Pa doesn’t make it…” He bit his lip and looked away as that fear loomed up again.

Bruce reached over to touch his arm, letting the touch linger. “It’s okay to be afraid, Clark. I promise you, Jack Doyle is the best heart surgeon there is, and the heart valve is state of the art. I just managed to get its release date bumped up a little.”

If Clark had still had any doubts that this man really was the Dark Knight, that quiet and unassuming statement would have cleared them away.  No matter the death-defying feat Batman had just pulled off, there was never any grandstanding, _Hey,_ _Look At Me Be a Hero_ posturing out of him.

This was Batman; strange-yet-familiar, and pretty much everything Clark had imagined he would be.  Well, the shyness was a surprise. Not Clark Kent’s bumbling awkwardness, but the wary watchfulness of a wolf as it circled the campfire; tempted to come close to the warmth and the light but ready to bolt back into the shadows at the first sign of danger. A lot of people might want to coax the wolf closer so they could tame him. Clark only wanted to share that warmth and light with him. He realized he had wanted to do that for a really long time.

“Was the urgent phone call about the valve?” he asked.

Bruce shook his head. “No; my kids needed my input on something.”

 _His kids…_ His boys who were Nightwing and Robin. Just one of the million things Clark wanted to know about. “Are they okay?”

“Yes. Gotham’s fairly quiet right now.”

“How you deal with it, the danger they face every time they go out?”

There was a troubled look in Bruce’s eyes and Clark suspected this was an issue that Bruce frequently confronted. Although clearly reluctant to answer the question, Bruce had his mouth open to say something but then stood up and composed his features into the playboy’s laissez-faire persona. The transformation was as startling as it was subtle and Clark experienced a mild pang of envy at the absence of props.

“Mrs. Kent?” Bruce said, and Clark looked around to see his mother approach them, a guarded look in her eyes as she glanced between Clark and Bruce.

“Ma,” Clark put down his coffee and got to his feet, “it’s okay, this is Bruce Wayne. Bruce, my mother, Martha Kent. Bruce’s company are the ones behind the heart valve.”

“Oh! Oh my!” Martha stepped forward then, shaking Bruce’s outstretched hand. “I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce, please, and there’s no need to thank me, Mrs. Kent. I’m glad to be able to help.”

Clark stared some more as the playboy guise shifted slightly and Bruce allowed Martha to see the man Clark had been talking with. He had a feeling Bruce didn’t do that often. He could tell she was concerned, though, as Bruce’s questions started to get a little personal. He was about to tell her it was all right, that Bruce knew everything, when cries of distress reached him from across town.

“Oh no…”

His mother and Bruce looked at him, Bruce tense as he asked, “What is it?”

“A fire in a high-rise. There’s some children trapped in an elevator.”

Bruce touched his arm. “Go. I’ll stay with your mother.”

Clark nodded, grateful for him. At his mother’s puzzled look, he said, “It’s okay, Ma, Bruce knows.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll be back as soon as possible,” he said, already running for the elevator and praying he could reach the high-rise and those kids in time.

~*~

He was in time; he delivered the frightened children into their parent’s arms and then made short work of the fire with a blast of cold breath that put out every ember. Anxious to get back to the hospital, he hovered over the children, glad to see more smiles than tears now. He waved and smiled back at them before taking to the skies once more. As he approached, he reached out with his hearing and discovered Bruce distracting his mother with a comical story about a garden party, a croquet match with someone named Ronnie, and a killer swan on the loose. Apparently a butler named Alfred had saved the day.

“…well I hope those two little scamps of yours apologized to Miss Vreeland,” Martha was saying as Clark returned.

“They did, profusely.” Bruce looked over at Clark. “Everything all right?”

Clark nodded. “Everyone’s safe.”

Martha gave him a fond smile. “We were lucky with Clark. He hardly ever got into trouble. Some of it was because of, you know, having to keep secrets, but Jonathan always said,” her voice wobbled and broke--

“Ma.” Clark squeezed her shoulders gently.

She nodded and patted one of his hands. “Jonathan always said it wasn’t that at all, that it just wasn’t in Clark to do bad things.”

Bruce looked at him, unreadable as he said, “Your husband sounds like a wise man, Mrs. Kent.”

Clark made a face and looked away, embarrassed. He was no saint and they both knew it. He was about to tell them so when he heard something that made him stand up straight, braced for anything. “Ma, the doctors are coming.”

She looked at him, anxious. “All right,” she nodded to herself as Clark and Bruce helped her to her feet. She gripped both their hands, barely breathing as Dr. Ortega approached.

Clark looked at the man with Dr. Ortega whom he presumed was Jack Doyle. Doyle was…not tall, red haired and freckled, and barely looked old enough to drive much less perform surgery. Clark looked over at Bruce. Bruce shrugged slightly and murmured, “Don’t judge books by their covers.”

Guilty, Clark looked back at the doctors and tried to anticipate their news. He thought he could detect a positive vibe about them but he wanted, he needed to hear the words.

“Clark, Mrs. Kent,” Dr. Ortega smiled, “Jonathan came through the surgery with flying colors.”

Clark nodded, not sure what to say, and glanced at his mother. She was still holding onto him and Bruce for dear life. “Ma, he’s okay. Pa’s okay.”

She nodded, lips compressed into a thin line as tears welled up in her eyes. “Oh, Clark…” She turned into him as Clark put his arms around her, relief coming out in the tears she had fought off until now. “Oh, Clark.” She drew back and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief Bruce produced. “He’s all right?” she asked, looking from Clark and Bruce and back to the doctors.

Dr. Ortega nodded. “He’s doing great, Mrs. Kent. He’s got a long recovery ahead but it’s looking really good.” She indicated Dr. Doyle and introduced him. “This man is a wizard, Mrs. Kent. He can answer all your questions.”

Martha looked intently at Jack Doyle, they were about the same height, and said, simple but heartfelt, “Thank you. May we see him?”

Jack Doyle said, “In a little while. We’re moving him to recovery. He’ll be groggy, but you can visit for a couple of minutes.”

Clark watched her go off with the doctors, listening in for a minute as Martha pressed them with questions. Once she was out of sight—and earshot, if he was anyone else—he suddenly felt like a popped balloon and sank down into a chair, legs stretched out before him. He rolled his head against the backrest to look at Bruce, standing there with a curious look on his face. “You remember that time we were trapped in the live action video game and I was dodging Kryptonite-laced bullets?”

Bruce nodded. “Little hard to forget.”

“I wasn’t half as worn out by that as I am by this.”

Bruce quirked a smile. “Yeah, but at least I don’t have to dig a Kryptonite bullet out of your butt this time.”

“Oh, thanks for that memory…”

~*~

As Clark approached his father’s bedside he could already tell that Jonathan was better. Not all the way back. That would take time and things might not ever be exactly the same, just as Bruce had said, but there was every reason to believe his father’s new chapter would be a good one.

“Hey,” Jonathan said. His voice was weak, a little hoarse, but it was the best sound Clark had heard all day.

Clark stepped closer and clasped his father’s hand. “Hey.”

“Your ma okay as she claims to be?”

Clark smiled. “She will be. How do you feel?”

“Like a draft horse kicked me in the chest.”

Clark laughed, then sighed and sat down in the empty chair. “The farm’s okay,” he said before Jonathan could start to fret about that. “Mr. Ingalls and his kids are looking after things until Bruce and I get out there.”

Jonathan narrowed his eyes. “Who’s this Bruce?”

“Didn’t Ma tell you?”

“Told me a little. Said I should tell him thank you.”

Clark grinned. “You should.” More seriously, he said, “He’s a good man, Pa. The best.”

“He know much about farming?”

“He’ll learn,” Clark promised. “You should rest now,” he added as he saw his father wilt a little. Just tired this time, just a little tired.

“’Spose I should.” Jonathan squinted up at him. “How’re you?”

Clark nodded, eyes starting to burn. “Pretty good now,” he said and squeezed his father’s hand. He bent down and kissed his father’s forehead, and felt the tears escape as Jonathan reached to ruffle his hair and pat the back of his head. “I love you,” he said as he drew back.

“Love you, too. Now get out of here and go take care of the farm.”

Clark smiled, nodded again. “Yes, sir.” He passed Dr. Doyle on the way out and paused in the doorway to watch as the doctor examined Jonathan. As if the doctor sensed him, he looked over after a moment and gave Clark a nod and a thumbs up.

Bruce was waiting for him in the corridor. “Lois is back; she took your mother to the cafeteria.”

“That’s good. Maybe she can get her to rest a little.” He was interested to note it was Lois now, not Ms. Lane, and hoped that was a good sign. “Do you have to get back to Gotham right away?”

“Not necessarily. Why?”

Clark smiled and steered him toward the elevator. “I’ll explain on the way.

**end episode one**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Bruce is introduced to the Queens, future plotlines are foreshadowed, and we get a brief preview of the boys down on the farm...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long delay in continuing this. The next chapter is in progress and will appear ASAP.

_Previously in “Gotham Comes to Smallville: Disclosures”--_

“Who’s this Bruce?” Jonathan asked.

 

“Didn’t Ma tell you?”

 

“Told me a little. Said I should tell him thank you.”

 

Clark smiled. “You should.” More seriously, he said. “He’s a good man, Pa. The best.”

 

“He know much about how to run a farm?”

 

“He can learn,” Clark promised. “You should rest now,” he added as his father started to look wilted around the edges. Just tired, Clark told himself. This long day was catching up with all of them.

 

“’Spose I should.” Jonathan squinted up at him, reading volumes in Clark’s face. “How are you doing?”

 

Clark nodded and his eyes started to burn as he thought of how close it had been. “I’m pretty good now.” he said and squeezed his father’s hand. Clark bent to his kiss his forehead and felt a few tears escape at last as Jonathan ruffled his hair. “I love you.”

 

“Love you too. Now get out of here and go check on the farm, that fence isn’t fixing itself.”

 

Clark grinned. “Yes, sir.” He passed Dr. Doyle on the way out and paused in the doorway to watch as the doctor examined Jonathan. As if Doyle sensed him, he looked over and nodded, and gave Clark a thumb’s up sign that Jonathan echoed. Clark nodded and went on out.

 

Bruce was waiting for him in the hallway. “Lois is back. She took your mother to the cafeteria.”

 

“That’s good. Maybe she can get her to rest.” Clark was interested to note it was Lois now, not Ms. Lane. He hoped that boded well for the future. Thinking of his conversation with his father, he gave Bruce a speculative look that took in the perfectly pressed, designer suit and shoes that had never stepped in a pasture, and he couldn’t help enjoying the mental picture he formed of Bruce doing chores on the farms. “Do you have to get back to Gotham right away?”

 

“Not necessarily.” Bruce gave him a suspicious look. “What did you have in mind?”  


Clark smiled and took his elbow to steer him toward the elevator. “I’ll explain on the way…”

 

 

“2”

 

“Hey, bud!” Clark caught hold of the small, fair-haired bundle of energy that launched itself at him and hoisted the boy high into the air to the sound of delighted giggles. “I think somebody’s looking for you,” he said as he spotted Chloe and Oliver just coming into the cafeteria.

 

The boy waved at his parents and then aimed a curious look at the people seated around the table. Lois and Martha were familiar faces to him but when he took note of Bruce he ducked his head against Clark’s shoulder and peeked shyly at the stranger.

 

“That’s my friend Bruce,” Clark said and smiled to show this stranger was safe and friendly. “He has some boys, too, although I think they’re a little older than you.”

 

So quietly that only Clark could hear, the boy whispered, “What are their names?”

 

Clark wished he could tell him Nightwing and Robin. “Dick and Tim. Right?” He looked at Bruce, less for confirmation and more to get him in the conversation.

 

“Right.” Bruce nodded, and then added, “They’re back home in Gotham.”

 

More at ease now, the boy said, “With their mom?”

 

“With Alfred.”

 

A bit uncertain, the boy said, “Is that their grandpa?”

 

That question, couched in such innocence, won a smile from Bruce. “Pretty much,” he said. The warmth in his smile dimmed just a fraction and Clark watched his expression shift subtly to something on the cusp of Bruce and Batman. “And these must be your parents.”

 

“We must be,” Oliver said as he reached the booth and took in the scene. His inquisitive gaze lingered on Bruce a moment, flicked to Clark, and then to Chloe who replied with a shrug and a wry smile.

 

“Still collecting billionaires, I see,” she said as she took her son from Clark. “Mrs. Kent? Lois called us on the plane and told us the good news.”

 

Clark could tell his mother was exhausted and running on the coffee Lois had poured into her. There was nothing forced in her smile, though, and there was a sense of serenity around her now that did Clark’s own heart good. “Jonathan’s doing so much better, Chloe. We really can’t thank Bruce enough.” She beamed a fond smile at Bruce that left the Dark Knight disconcerted and something close to bashful.

 

“I just cut through some red-tape, Mrs. Kent.”

 

Martha wasn’t having any of that, though. She smiled some more and patted his hand as Chloe and Oliver gave Bruce another speculative going over before they looked at Lois for some clues. Feigning innocence and ignorance, Lois just shook her head and held up her hands in a don’t-ask-me gesture.

 

“Oh…” Martha’s smile grew tentative and her fingers dug into Bruce’s hand. Clark glanced around to see what had alarmed her and spotted Dr. Ortega headed toward them. He moved closer to his mother and rested a hand on her shoulder.

 

“It’s okay, Mrs. Kent.” Dr. Ortega smiled to put them all at ease. “Your husband’s condition remains stable. We would like to discuss his post-op care when he comes home.”

 

Martha looked up at Clark, beaming once more at the knowledge Jonathan would come home. “All right.” She looked like she welcomed this, both because it would provide her with all the answers she wanted and because of the promise of hope it carried. “Clark, stay here with your friends,” she said as she gathered up her things and looked around to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.

 

“You sure, Ma?”

 

She nodded. “I can do this.”

 

“Never doubted it for a minute,” he said and hugged her. “Call me if anything changes.”

 

“I will.”

 

Clark watched her head out with the doctor, sighed, and turned back to the table. The surface of the table was littered with coffee cups, twisted up napkins, and half-eaten Danish. The people seated along the padded bench—Lois separating Bruce and Oliver while Chloe looked on with benevolent amusement—and with the exception of the littlest Queen, all looked worn and faded in the pale dawn light that crept in through the windows. Clark thought none of them had ever looked better.

 

Lois stretched and yawned and gave him a dubious, squint-eyed look. “What’re you grinning about, Smallville? Get us some fresh coffee.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and grinned even wider.

 

~*~

 

“So, Wayne?” Oliver took a sip of his coffee, pulled a face, and shifted around on the banquette to face Bruce. “Why are you here again?” His tone and manner were casual—deliberately so, Bruce suspected. “I mean, it’s a long way to come just for a photo op.”

 

“Ollie…” Clark looked up from where he was sitting on the floor, playing jacks with the youngest Queen. Bruce was momentarily startled by how much he would have liked to simply sit back and take in that sight for awhile. He knew Clark was good with kids, infinitely patient with their curiosity, and with as much care and attention brought to a game of jacks as to any high stakes battle with a supervillain. In fact Bruce couldn’t be sure that Clark didn’t devote more attention to detail as the game progressed, never letting the boy but fine-tuning his reflexes so as not to have any otherworldly advantage. Dick and Tim were going to love him.

 

Bruce glanced away, in time to catch Lois watching the game of jacks, a trace of something wistful in her eyes. She looked at him, painfully vulnerable in that moment before she swiftly masked it with a look that dared him to say anything. He never would and hoped she picked that up from the brief nod he sent her.

 

“It’s all right, Clark,” he said, attention turned back to Oliver Queen. “Clark’s father needed this heart valve thing that Wayne Biotech had developed. I pulled a few strings to fast track it.”

 

“Uh-huh. And no strings attached?”

 

Ah, _that’s_ what he was concerned about, Bruce realized. “No strings, no obligations; no ulterior motives.” He certainly couldn’t object to Clark’s friends looking out for him to protect him from being manipulated. Not when Clark was only too willing to give everyone the benefit of the doubt until it almost killed him. He supposed it might even be considered a backhanded compliment for Bruce Wayne to be suspected of secretly possessing Lex Luthor potential.

 

“And you’ve known Clark how long? Because I don’t remember him ever mentioning you.”

 

Bruce gave Clark a wounded look now. “Is that true, Clark? Because I thought we had something special.”

 

“You do know I can shoot fire from my eyes, right?” Clark replied as Lois choked on her coffee and Chloe murmured, “Whoa, did not see that coming.”

 

“This…” Oliver looked from one to the other, almost sputtering. “This Gotham City _fop_ knows your secret? _Clark._ ”

 

Clark heaved a sigh that ruffled the litter on the table. Fortunately they had this corner of the cafeteria to themselves at the moment. He aimed a stern look at Bruce. “And people say you have no sense of humor.”

 

Thoroughly baffled now, Oliver said, “This is not a good idea, Clark.”

 

“Ollie, it’s okay. We can trust him.”

 

“You can,” Bruce chipped in. “I think you heroes are the most awesome thing ever.”

 

Clark and Oliver both gave him dubious looks at that, Oliver saying, “Yeah, that’s great.” He shook his head and turned back to Clark. “We’ll talk about this later. I need to tell you about this old friend I ran into in Hawaii, too,” he added with a significant look that Bruce wasn’t meant to understand.

 

Bruce had waited for the perfect moment. It came now, just as Oliver took another drink of coffee. He spoke up again, this time in a voice Green Arrow would instantly recognize, and asked, “Was Aquaman able to confirm Black Manta’s operations at Point Nemo?”

 

It was Oliver’s turn to choke on his coffee. As he coughed and wiped his mouth, he looked at Bruce, then Clark, then back again, disbelief written across his face. “No way,” he said when he could talk. “No fucking way.”

 

Cowl or no cowl, Bruce gave him a look that was all Batman, one eyebrow raised in a manner he’d copied from Alfred.

 

“Ah…” Oliver stared some more and then sought out Clark for confirmation. “This is real?”

 

Caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement, Clark nodded. “This is real, Ollie. It’s him.”

 

Still processing this news, Oliver aimed a look at Clark that was sharp with the suspicion of a man who thinks he’s been the butt of a joke. “And you’ve known about this how long?”

 

“Just since today—last night.” Clark tipped his head Bruce’s direction. “He’s had dossiers on all of us from the start.”

 

“Why am I not surprised?” Oliver fixed a narrow-eyed look on Bruce that added up details and made connections. “Guess that explains where you get all your toys.”

 

Bruce acknowledged that with a nod and refrained from any comment about pots and kettles.  He quirked the eyebrow again and prompted, “So—Aquaman?”

 

“Aquaman, yeah. Arthur confirms your intel on Black Manta. He and his crew have made several approaches toward Point Nemo. Felix Faust has been spotted, too.”

 

Lois interrupted. “Point Nemo? What’s that? And it better not be a clownfish.”

 

“I think it’s more to do with Captain Nemo than Disney,” Chloe said. She shifted her son as he started to fuss.

 

“It’s a location so remote it is inaccessible from known geographical points,” Bruce said. “In this case, Manta’s after something in the South Pacific.”

 

“Do we know what?” Lois said.

 

Clark shook his head. “All we have is the latitude and longitude for something that doesn’t exist on any map Bruce has located.”

 

 _47°9′S 126°43′WCoordinates: 47°9′S 126°43′W_  Bruce had memorized it, that one scrap of evidence Aquaman had provided, courtesy of some ancient mariner he’d come across.

 

“Maybe it’s Treasure Island,” Lois suggested.

 

“That would explain Manta’s interest in the place,” Oliver said. He looked at Bruce. “Arthur said he’ll have some of his people monitor things and report back as more information comes in.”

 

Bruce nodded. Like a stakeout that might drag on for weeks before it yielded anything useful, he’d had a feeling this would be a slow to develop situation. That gave them more time to prepare but it would help if they had some idea of what might be coming. If it did all lead back to the Injustice League, time to get ready would be a rare and precious luxury.

 

“Well,” Lois stood up and joined Chloe, “if it turns out King Kong and Godzilla are on the way, I’m declaring dibs on the story.” She reached for the child squirming in Chloe’s arms. “Who’s a little crankypants?” she cooed. “You are, yes you are…”

 

Bruce watched Clark’s face and took note of a pensive look in his eyes, a companion to the wistful expression he had surprised on Lois’ face. He knew Clark and Lois had been engaged. He also knew those plans had fallen through. Nothing else about it was his business, of course. That didn’t keep him from being curious.

 

At the door, Lois paused and called back, “Clark? I’m going to try and get your mother to crash at my place for a couple of hours. Okay?”

 

He nodded. “I’ll be at the farm if you need me.”

 

Lois nodded. “What about the Prince?”

 

“He’s coming with me,” Clark said. He looked at Bruce to make sure. “Right?”

 

“I haven’t changed my mind.” He still wasn’t entirely clear on how the Kents had come by Clark, after all. A visit to the old homestead promised to provide many of those answers.

 

“Think those Dolce and Gabbana wingtips are up to life on the farm?”

 

“I can loan him a pair of my work boots,” Clark said.

 

Bruce thought he could almost see the neurons in Lois’ brain firing as she examined that comment. He wasn’t inclined to look that closely at it himself.

 

The Queens shared puzzled looks, Chloe’s head bent close to her cousin’s as she tugged Lois away. Oliver shrugged, looked around the cafeteria as the morning shift staff began to arrive. “I…should go after my wife,” he said, but hovered there for a moment as he watched Clark. “I’m glad your dad’s going to be okay. It’s good to have resourceful friends,” he added and looked at Bruce. He held out a hand. “Welcome to the team—again.”

 

Bruce clasped the proffered hand as Clark looked on, beaming.

 

~*~

 

Clark stopped a few feet away as he drew within sight of Bruce. In the time it had taken Clark to go back to the house and grab some bottles of water and return, Bruce had taken off the red plaid cotton shirt Clark had loaned him and tied it around his hips. Perspiration made the sleeveless, white undershirt he wore cling to him like a second skin in a way Clark found oddly distracting. It also revealed evidence of his watchfulness over in Gotham and Clark devoted his attention to those instead as he approached and handed Bruce one of the bottles.

 

“What’s that from?” he asked and pointed at a dime-sized white patch on Bruce’s forearm.

 

“Acid splash courtesy of The Joker.” Bruce twisted the top of the bottle, poured some water into his cupped hand and splashed that on his head, long fingers combing the cool water through his hair. Clark tried not to stare. “How long would it take you to dig these postholes on your own?” he asked as he eyed the substantial length of fence they were repairing.

 

“Couple of minutes.” He tracked the progress of two drops of water as they slid down Bruce’s nose to land on his lips. He glanced away when Bruce’s tongue flicked out to lick them up. “If you, umm, don’t think you’re up to it, though, you could go sit on the porch.”

 

“Hhn,” Bruce grunted and took a long swig from the bottle, throat muscles working as he swallowed. He picked up his post hole digger. “Anything you can do, Kent…” He let it trail off ominously as he got to work.

 

Clark welcomed the banter. It was a useful disruption to the train of thought that had started to unwind there for a second. This wasn’t at all what he had pictured when he’d asked Bruce out to the farm…

 

_To be continued in Part 3_


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce visits the farm, Clark has something to think about, and Alfred is smooth.

“You want to take the scenic route?” Clark asked as the truck bumped over a cattle guard.

 

Bruce tipped down his sunglasses and squinted against the excessive morning sunlight. “There’s a scenic route?” he said as he gazed upon an infinity of cornfields. He stifled a yawn and realized he must have dozed off for a couple of minutes. That should have alarmed him, to be that vulnerable, to let down his guard so much in the presence of a stranger. Of course they weren’t actually strangers, even if this was the first time they had met as Clark and Bruce. Somehow that made sense in his sleep-fogged brain.

 

He straightened up and winced at the crick in his neck. He felt rumpled and like he’d slept in his clothes, and while that was technically true he wasn’t used to actually feeling that way. Clark, suit coat and tie discarded, sleeves rolled, looked completely relaxed and at ease. Maybe it was a home turf thing, Bruce supposed as he looked out over the Kansas cornfields and tried to picture himself ever being content in these surroundings. He had to conclude that seemed unlikely. As he glanced at Clark, though, impossibly bright and shiny, and with those ridiculous glasses still perched on his nose, Bruce had to admit the place was not entirely devoid of attractions.

 

He blinked at that thought as if it had ambushed him and hastily sought some distraction. He found it a billboard up ahead that proclaimed Smallville as the meteor capital of the world. “There should be a birthplace of Superman one instead,” he said as they passed it.

 

“That’s not exactly common knowledge—and I wasn’t actually born here.”

 

He hadn’t quite worked out how to bring up the subject and this was likely his best opportunity. “Krypton. Right.” He ran a hand back through his hair, grimaced again at the twinge in his neck and rubbed the sore spot. “I suppose the Kents found you in their cabbage patch?”

 

“Actually,” Clark pulled off the road and parked the truck by a slow-moving ditch, “it was this field right here.” Clark climbed out of the cab and Bruce scrambled to follow. He eyed that ditch, thought of West Nile Virus, and caught up with Clark where he leaned against the rails of a wooden fence and looked out across yet another field. “Do you remember the meteor shower that struck here, back in ’89?”

 

Bruce nodded and propped one foot against a weathered old railing. “My mother and I followed it pretty closely.”

 

Clark glanced at him and smiled. “Your mother?”

 

Bruce missed his sunglasses; he felt certain they would protect him from the effects of that smile. “She was a space buff,” he said, surprised at the warmth and richness of the memories that wanted to surge back. Most astonishing of all, he found barely any pain accompanied them. This was a fresh hypothesis, the possibility of the past not hurting. He would have to take this development under advisement for further examination, test it out--

 

Clark touched his shoulder and said, “Tell me about it.”

 

“Nothing to tell really,” he said as he ran his hand along the top rail, mindful of splinters. He did actually mean to leave it that and had to wonder if some kind of subliminal persuasion was a secret power Superman kept quiet about, because with no more prodding than that he began to divulge details he hadn’t even shared with the boys. “She’d get me out of bed in the middle of the night so we could go watch the Perseid Meteor shower at its peak, things like that,” he said and went on to describe the hike up to their observatory in what seemed the dead of night, the way their flashlights picked out the well-worn path and how his mother kept a tight hold of his hand as every rustle in the bushes spooked him. Soon Alfred would arrive with a pot of hot chocolate, and Thomas would wander in, in pajamas and overcoat, his feet stuffed into a pair of Wellingtons, blinking owlishly around at them all. In warm weather there would be picnics under the stars and they would all invent new constellations and tell the stories behind them. One time Bruce had pointed out a formation that looked like The Gray Ghost to him, and had regaled his parents and Alfred with an account of _The Airship Mystery._

 

“Sometimes there would be shooting stars and we’d all make a wish--” The flood of words shut off as suddenly as if he’d turned a tap and he gripped the top of the fence hard, felt the rough wood dig into his palms as his shoulders hunched against the memories and all the feelings they stirred up; all of the wishes that never came true. “How did you do that? Some…Kryptonian sorcery?”

 

“No sorcery,” Clark said and Bruce felt a hand, large and warm, rest against his shoulder again. That hand could snap his neck with less effort than Bruce would need to crack a walnut. Yet he perceived no danger and held absolutely still as that hand rubbed his shoulder and massaged the sore spot on his neck. “Maybe you just needed to talk about it.”

 

Maybe; he wasn’t entirely ready to close the book on that possibility of sorcery, though.

 

As if he sensed Bruce needed something more neutral to focus on, Clark asked, “You have your own observatory?”

 

He nodded and released his death grip on the fence. “My great-great-etcetera-grandfather, August, had it built on the property. He had a long-standing feud with Percival Lowell over his belief in the Martian canals, when Grandfather August insisted the whole thing was based on a mistranslation of Giovanni Schiaparelli.” He watched a pair of crows fly by overhead, their harsh cries the only sound for miles. “I haven’t been up there in years.”

 

“I bet your boys would love it.”

 

Bruce nodded, considering that. “They might. We could open it together,” he said with a quick glance at Clark and then away again. He had no idea why he’d said that but couldn’t think of a graceful way to take it back now.

 

“I’d like that. I love astronomy.”

 

“I guess you would,” Bruce said and seized the chance to get this conversation back on the right track, before he blurted out anything else that he would regret later. “So, the meteor shower--?”

 

Clark nodded slowly. “The meteor shower…” He leaned on the fence, a pensive look in his eyes now. “I came with it.”

 

Since he wasn’t quite sure what that meant, Bruce repeated it. “You came with it?” He remembered the news coverage, of course, a magazine cover with a tearful little girl on its cover and the headline TERROR IN THE HEARTLAND. “The meteors… They were pieces of Krypton.” There were deposits of the toxic rock all over the globe, of course, but there _was_ higher than usual density of the meteorite in this part of Kansas.

 

“Come on.” Clark hopped over the fence. Bruce followed suit and was led to a precise spot in the field, with a scarecrow up on a pole to keep watch over the area like some eerie sentinel. “My ship came down here.” Clark pointed out scorch marks in the earth that had vanished long ago but that Bruce visualized with crystal clarity as Clark told him about a doomed planet and parents who sent their beloved son on a journey across the stars, their dreams for him pinned on the fragile hope that he would survive and thrive in an alien land.

 

Like the rest of the world, Bruce had heard the bare bones of the story before. The rest of it, how the Kents had found him and taken him, protected him from a world that would either fear or want to dissect him—he gathered that had been shared with only a select few. A privileged few that now included Bruce Wayne. He wasn’t sure he warranted that level of trust but he wasn’t about to decline this gift, now it had been handed to him.

 

“I was right,” he said, as they made their way back to the pickup.

 

Clark looked a question at him and gave him an assist when the cuff of his pants got caught on a nail climbing back over the fence. “How’s that?”

 

Bruce regarded the slight tear, the scuffs to his wingtips. “Growing up here,” he made a gesture to encompass all of Kansas, “that’s made you Superman just as much as your powers.”

 

A somber look on his face, Clark nodded. “It does make a difference who raises you,” he said.

 

Bruce sensed there was another story to be told, maybe hundreds, thousands of them. It didn’t seem odd to think he would have the opportunity to hear them all.

 

“So, that tour?” Clark said as he climbed back behind the wheel.

 

Settled back against the seat, Bruce made a _lead on_ gesture and settled his sunglasses back in place. They helped hide his smile as the radio came on just as Katy Perry sang, _“You’re so supersonic, wanna feel your power, stun me with your lasers--”_

Clark frowned, looked embarrassed, and changed the station as they pulled back onto the road.

 

~*~

_Gotham City; stately Wayne Manor_

“Kansas?” Dick paused with a forkful of pancakes halfway to his mouth as he looked from Alfred to Tim and back again. Brow furrowed, he asked, “What’s Bruce doing in Kansas?” Haly’s Circus had played there a few weeks before they rolled into Gotham. His main memories were of flat, empty stretches of land as their train went through, and then all of a sudden Metropolis had loomed on the horizon. He remembered how that first glimpse of it in the dawn light had made him think of the Emerald City in _Wizard of Oz._

 

There wasn’t an Emerald City, of course, or even flying monkeys, but Metropolis was home to one really big main attraction. He met Tim’s eyes across the breakfast table and confirmed they had both arrived at the same conclusion.

 

“Alfred, is he working with Superman?” He phrased the question as casually and offhand as was possible with all the anticipation bouncing around his stomach.

 

“Does he need some backup?” Tim chipped in, excited and not playing it cool at all.

 

“I believe Master Bruce has things well in hand.” Alfred set out another dispenser of maple syrup. “As a matter of fact, he’s gone there in his capacity as head of Wayne Enterprises.”

 

Dick could feel his eyebrows crawling up to his bangs as he exchanged another look with Tim, and Tim said, “Is he staging a takeover of LuthorCorp?”

 

“Nothing so melodramatic.” Alfred sat down to his own breakfast. Dick watched him pour out a cup of tea, add a splash of milk, and butter a cranberry scone with meticulous precision. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but with each second that ticked by Dick became convinced Alfred was in possession of a secret. Not just any run-of-the-mill kind of secret, either, but the sort that knocked your whole world for a loop when the big reveal came. Kind of like when you discovered the guy who’d opened his home to you was actually Batman.

 

“Come on, Alfie, something’s up and you know all about it.”

 

Dick was reminded of why he never wanted to play poker with Alfred because the older betrayed absolutely nothing as he looked at them over his teacup. “Bruce wished to personally supervise a medical emergency involving a gentleman named Jonathan Kent.”

 

Dick and Tim looked at each other again, and Tim asked, “Who’s Jonathan Kent?”

 

Alfred sipped his tea and shook his head. “I really couldn’t say.”

 

No matter how Dick and Tim approached it, they were unable to pry any further details from Alfred.

 

Once breakfast was over, they waited until Alfred was out of earshot (if Alfred ever was really out of earshot), before Tim said, “This could be a test. Maybe Bruce wants to see what kind of progress we’ve made with our investigative skills.”

 

Dick nodded, thoughtful. He had the sense it was something more than that, but those skills should come in handy for getting to the bottom of this mystery. “To the Batcave!” he declared, and scrambled after Tim to get to the library and the secret entrance there first.

 

~*~

Alfred watched them dash off to the Cave and nodded to himself with a smile, confident that would keep them occupied for some time.

 

With no other matters pressing at the moment, he headed out to the patio, made himself comfortable on a chaise longue, and cracked open the latest Nora Roberts.

 

~*~

As the pickup bumped its way down Hickory Lane and headed up the drive to the house, Bruce found he had to substantially alter the mental picture he had formed of the Kent farm. He’d been correct on the basics—the house with its cheerful, sunny paint job and wraparound porch, barn and silo, and windmill, and the pastures of cows, free-range chickens scratching in the yard. He hadn’t imagined it big enough, though. “This is,” he climbed out of the truck and did a 360 survey of the landscape, “impressive.”

 

Clark smiled as he went around to the back of the truck. “Oldest farm in Lowell County. Kents have lived here since 1871,” he said. The note of pride in his voice was impossible to miss. Bruce had been in no doubt that the Kents had made him feel that he truly was part of that heritage, regardless of any ties of blood or points of origin, but it was good to get confirmation. That hit home for him, too, since he could never be sure if he had given Dick and Tim that same kind of security .

 

Clark lowered the tailgate of the pickup and reached for two fifty pound sacks of chicken feed, hefting them to balance on his shoulder with no more effort than Bruce would pick up a bag of marshmallows. “I can get all this,” he said as Bruce leaned in to grab hold of another sack of feed.

 

“I’ve got it,” he said as he hauled it out. Bruce found he could lift two sacks of feed out of the pickup easily enough, but he suspected he pulled it off with considerably less finesse. “Where to?”

 

“Over here.” Clark led the way across the yard to the barn, chickens scattering out of the way.

 

Bruce suspected Clark could have had the entire truck unloaded and everything stashed away in the blink of an eye, but it felt good to pitch in and help out. As they finally headed up to the house, though, with the last bags, he was suddenly glad of the purchases he’d made at the feed store.

 

“Is there some place I can change and clean up?” he asked as they stepped into the kitchen. Although far more cluttered and full of bric-a-bac than Alfred would have cared for, the room had the same kind of feel to it as Alfred’s domain back home.

 

“Sure.” Clark set the grocery bags down on the counter and pointed up the stairs. “Bathroom’s up there, second door on the right. My room’s down at the end.”

 

Bruce nodded, sorted out his bags, and left Clark to put away the groceries. Upstairs, he hesitated a moment, sorely tempted to snoop as he saw Clark’s bedroom door standing open as if in invitation. He clamped down on that, however, stepped into the bathroom instead and emptied out the paper bag from the feed store.

 

He had thought something called a feed store would deal primarily in livestock supplies. There had been plenty of those, from feed to tubs and buckets, and rolls of barb wire. There had also been propane heaters, tools, wheel barrows, pet supplies, and a selection of jeans, footwear, and—he might have expected this—plaid shirts. He dug out a pair of jeans now, and the steel-toed work boots Clark had advised him to get, and swiftly stripped off what remained of the Armani. The suit looked like a lost cause to him, but on the chance Alfred could do something with it, he stuffed it and his shoes into an empty bag.

 

He probably should have picked up one of those shirts, he realized as he took a look at himself in the mirror. In addition to being hopelessly wrinkled, his white dress shirt was also smeared with dirt and dust, and he had ripped open one sleeve at some point in the morning. He took out the cufflinks and put them in a pocket of his jeans, and stepped back out into the hallway to call down the stairs. “Clark? Do you have a shirt I could borrow?”

 

“Sure!” Clark was up the stairs in a single bound. “Here.” He led the way into his bedroom and went over to his closet while Bruce indulged a furtive examination of the room. There was a Smallville Crows banner on a wall, and a plush crow in the Smallville High colors up on a bookshelf. There were a lot of books—Bruce spotted some favorite _Star Trek_ and _Star Wars_ titles, other science fiction and fantasy; dresser, desk, nothing to surprise him and a few too many items that had a voice in his head going: Oh, look, he likes that too!

He tuned that out and looked around as Clark produced a blue-and-black plaid shirt from the depths of his closet. “How’s this? It’s always been a little tight through the shoulders for me.”

 

“Thanks.” He slipped the shirt on and found it comfortably loose through the shoulders and he would have rolled the sleeves up anyway. He nodded at the shelf of well-thumbed paperbacks. “Which is your favorite— _Star Trek_ or _Star Wars_?”

 

Clark appeared to consider the question more seriously than Bruce had intended. “I like the adventure and sense of discovery in _Star Trek_ , and that optimistic view of the future, but the grand sweep of _Star Wars_ , where there’s no quick fix for the tragedies…” He shrugged, like he thought he may have said too much. “I guess I could identify with that a little more.”

 

Bruce nodded. “I can understand that. Plus, lightsabers are really cool.”

 

Quick as that, Clark’s smile was back. “They are. I always wanted one.”

 

“I tried to build one once. It didn’t exactly turn out as planned.”

 

“Maybe you just need some Kryptonian technology. We could try and see.”

 

By now they were headed back down the stairs and Bruce glanced at him. “Are you serious?”

 

Perfectly solemn, Clark said, “I’d never kid about lightsabers, Bruce.”

 

No, Bruce could see that as they continued the discussion in technical detail as they headed outside to attend to the farm.

 

~*~

Clark stopped a few feet away as he drew within sight of Bruce. In the time it had taken Clark to go back to the house and grab some bottles of water and return, Bruce had taken off the red plaid cotton shirt Clark had loaned him and tied it around his hips. Perspiration made the sleeveless, white undershirt he wore cling to him like a second skin in a way Clark found oddly distracting. It also revealed evidence of his watchfulness over in Gotham and Clark devoted his attention to those scars and bruises instead as he approached and handed Bruce one of the bottles.

 

“What’s that from?” he asked and pointed at a dime-sized white patch on Bruce’s forearm.

“Acid splash courtesy of The Joker.” Bruce twisted the top of the bottle, poured some water into his cupped hand and splashed that on his head, long fingers combing the cool water through his hair. Clark tried not to stare. “How long would it take you to dig these postholes on your own?” Bruce asked as he eyed the substantial length of fence they were repairing.

“Couple of minutes.” Clark tracked the progress of two drops of water as they slid down Bruce’s nose to land on his lips. He glanced away when Bruce’s tongue flicked out to lick them up. “If you, umm, don’t think you’re up to it, though, you could go sit on the porch.”

“Hhn,” Bruce grunted and took a long swig from the bottle, throat muscles working as he swallowed. He picked up his post hole digger. “Anything you can do, Kent…” He let it trail off ominously as he got back to work.

Clark welcomed the banter. It was a useful disruption to the train of thought that had started to unwind there for a second. It would have been easy to blame it on Lois for her comment about how they had practically been sitting in each other’s laps. He could have—if he and Bruce really had just met for the first time less than twenty-four hours ago, and if he hadn’t felt drawn to Batman the first time his path had crossed with Gotham’s Dark Knight _(“I have information The Joker’s in league with Intergang. They have Kryptonite. Stay out of the way while I save you.”)_

****

He had fun with Ollie and Barry, every member of the Justice League was important to him, but if Diana or Hal didn’t show up at a meeting, if Zatanna or J’onn couldn’t hang around to unwind after a mission over pizza and a movie, he didn’t find himself brooding about where they were and what they were doing. He didn’t worry if they were all right and had a family to be with at the holidays.

 

How did you get close to someone who refused to take off his mask, though? That had always been the biggest obstacle. Now that it had been removed, now that he knew the face beneath that mask, Clark found himself more drawn to him than ever. He doubted familiarity could ever lead to indifference where Bruce was concerned. There would always be something new to discover and understand. That should have been a deterrent. Who could want a relationship, whatever its nature, with someone who would always be half-Sphinx, where hardly anything would ever come easy?

 

He supposed he had Lois to thank for that, for so much really. The grand debacle that had been his relationship with  Lana had cured him of any romantic notions about love at first sight. Lois had annoyed him, infuriated him, and the very last thing he had ever expected was to fall in love with her. As he watched Bruce, determined to dig the best post holes Kansas had ever seen, he couldn’t help remarking that there were some striking similarities.

 

They fought—all the time. They disagreed on so many things. When everything was in synch, though, when they were toe-to-toe with Darkseid or the League of Assassins, there was no one Clark wanted at his side more than Batman, and there was no one he was more disappointed to see walk away at the end of the day.

 

The only thing he hadn’t counted on was this new thread added to the complex weave of their relationship.

 

“So were you planning to pitch in and help,” Bruce called over to him, “or am I supposed to do this whole job by myself?”

 

Clark picked up his shovel. “Thought you preferred to work alone.”

 

Bruce shrugged, plunged his shovel into the earth. “Things change, Clark, things change.”

 

Yes, they did, Clark thought. He didn’t see how this day could have too much more in store—but he’d been wrong before.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Alfred reads Nora Roberts. Prove he doesn't. :)
> 
> Also, Clark's memory of how he and Batman met for the first time is a tip of the hat to the SUPERMAN: THE ANIMATED SERIES 3-parter, "The World's Finest." 
> 
> We are nearly at the end of this one and I want to thank everyone who has stayed with it and encouraged me to carry on till the end. I'm terrible at answering feedback but that really does mean the world to me.
> 
> Also, although this story will soon be done, there will be more episodes set in this universe. So even when I finally type "The End" we won't finished with this universe yet. I hope that's good news. ;)


	4. "Four"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Company comes to call and the elephant in the room begins to be addressed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, it took a little longer than anticipated because of getting sidetracked by a few things (do you know how hard it is to find a Superman villain they didn't already use in Smallville? Thought I was going to have to go Arrow for awhile and raid Batman's rogue's gallery for someone. But, umm, that's getting ahead of things...) but here is the final, official version of Chapter Four.

**"Four"**

“Company?” Bruce paused and leaned on his shovel as he eyed a cloud of dust on the horizon.

Truth be told, he wouldn’t mind a respite. It wasn’t that farm chores were too physically taxing but more that, it was a kind of activity his body wasn’t accustomed to. He hadn’t quite worked out the difference yet, but he felt a burn in his muscles different from a night’s work in Gotham. He might have predicted that. The sense of satisfaction from working this hard out under a hot blazing sky had taken him by surprise. 

Never mind stopping to smell the roses, he couldn’t remember the last time he had bothered to even notice the gardens back home. He supposed Alfred took care of them. Or did they have a gardener who came a few times a month to look after things? That was probably something he should look into.

It hadn’t always been like that. Once upon a time he had loved to join his mother in her herb garden, digging away with his trowel as she told him about the plants that would grow there. The names alone had thrilled his imagination: agrimony and chamomile, hibiscus and garlic, vervain and St. John’s wort, meadowsweet and thyme, and so many more, all of them imbued with secret powers to hear her tell. If she told him the reason for letting thyme grow wild was because it would coax out the fairies, he didn’t doubt it for a moment--and he’d kept watch late into the night to see if they would show. His father might joke about Martha being part witch, but he’d never mocked her herbal remedies or insisted medical science was always superior. Bruce liked to think a little bit of Thomas had believed in the fairies too.

Bruce hadn’t forgotten that but it was among the memories he had put away to gather dust. Maybe it was time to bring them out again, to feel the earth slip between his fingers once more. Had Alfred kept up that herb garden? Something else to find out.

Small wonder Clark returned to this farm. Bruce had always supposed the primary reason had been to soak up the solar energy available in exuberant abundance, to recharge his batteries. He could see now there was a great deal more it, that working with the earth itself fueled him just as much.

Watching him refuel was no kind of hardship, though. The way he threw his head back and closed his eyes, arms extended and hands cupped as though he could catch the sun, it was like he reveled in every beam of light; the slow smile that broke over his face might as well have been a whoop of joy. Had Bruce ever known anyone more alive? Had he truly believed his own darkness could ever hold out against so much light?

Confident his own expression was in neutral as Clark looked at him, Bruce jerked his chin at the dust on the horizon. “I think someone’s coming.”

Eyes narrowed in a way Bruce had come to recognize, Clark nodded after a moment. “Ready to meet the neighbors?”

“As in more than one?”

Clark narrowed his eyes again. “Two station wagons and a truck, so, yep.”

He was Batman, he could melt away even out here in Kansas. Still, so far his Smallville experience had been enlightening, one might go so far as to say agreeable. 

He shrugged, master of nonchalance. “Bring ‘em on.”

Clark gave him an amused, if dubious look. “You’re looking on all this as an anthropology study, aren’t?”

That would be one way to get through it, and Bruce wouldn’t deny there was a flutter of truth there. As the station wagons and pickup pulled up in a cloud of dust that seemed to hang in the hot summer air, there was a split second where he did consider melting away. Curiosity, this chance to learn more of Clark in this environment, kept him there; that was the subject he wanted to gather more data on.

Amid a flurry of introductions as doors opened and one, two, five women emerged from the vehicles, the tiniest one barking commands--“How about you boys lend a hand with all this? Careful with that one, don’t tilt it!”--enough food was carried into the house to keep Alfred out of the kitchen for a week, at least. Or to keep The Flash going for a couple of days. Bruce gathered the intent was so Martha Kent wouldn’t have to worry about cooking while Jonathan was laid up.

“How’s your ma holding up?” asked Miss Hendershott as she wound her hair into a bun. She looked cool and comfortable in her bib overall shorts and flip-flops.

“Better now she knows Pa’s going to be all right.”

Miss Crenshaw--tall, silver-haired, amazing bone structure--said, “I called the hospital to ask when Jonathan could have visitors but they couldn’t tell me anything.” She swept the skirt of her maxi dress up before Clark could step on.

“I think it’s just family right now, ma’am. I’ll let you know when that changes.”

“You do that.”

“Is it okay to send flowers?” Miss Robideaux wanted to know. She didn’t look much older than Clark. Freckles sprinkled her face, suiting her faded jeans, peasant blouse, and jangle of bracelets.

“I’m sure Pa would love flowers,” Clark assured her.

All the while Bruce was aware of being under discreet scrutiny. He didn’t doubt they had come out to the farm to bring the food and check in on Clark, but getting a look at the billionaire who’d swooped in to help out had clearly been on their list as well. 

It was Mrs. Wojack who brought it up. A tall, strawberry blonde in pedal pushers and a pink gingham blouse, she looked him over and said, “So you’re the one they call the Prince of Gotham.”

“Jessie.” Mrs. Velez shushed her with a look. Petite and toned in yoga pants, sunglasses perched atop her head, she had introduced herself as the town librarian. She also appeared to be the de facto leader of the group. “Everyone knows how you feel about Gotham,” she added before turning to Bruce. “She had her purse snatched there fifteen year ago. Still hasn’t gotten over it.”

Mrs. Wojack sniffed. “Neither would you be, Marisol, had it happened to you.” She gave Bruce another once over. “I suppose your Batman can’t bother himself with crime like that.”

“You’d be surprised what Batman bothers himself with” Clark said and aimed a warning look at Bruce.

“And the important thing,” Miss Crenshaw stepped in, “is that Mr. Wayne saved Jonathan’s life.”

Although he side-eyed Mrs. Wojack, Bruce graciously accepted their thanks, hastening to add, “But it’s really Jack Doyle and his team, and the people at Wayne Bio Tech who are the heroes. All I did was cut through some red tape to make it possible” The women still looked impressed, even Mrs. Wojack, and Bruce felt as close to having an _aw_ shucks moment as he had ever come. The look of fond amusement on Clark’s face didn’t help one iota. Damned if he’d blush and scuff his toe on the floor, though.

“Well, we’d better finish up putting all this away,” said Mrs. Velez. “Clark, where’s your big freezer?”

While Clark pitched in to help stow away the food, Bruce kept an eye on Mrs. Wojack as she took a covert look around the front room. Snooping, it seemed, was a universal trait. There wasn’t any fault to be found in Martha Kent’s housekeeping that he could see. A self-satisfied look did flash over Mrs. Wojack’s face for a moment as she ran a fingertip along the upright piano, no doubt finding a trace of dust. 

If he were observing this from an anthropology standpoint, Bruce would note the next stage of this ritual gathering was for all parties present to be seated around the big dining table with coffee and plates of Miss Crenshaw’s famous pecan sour cream coffee cake--“Extra crumbly, Mr. Wayne,” she said as she handed him a plate. Unsure how that was significant, Bruce nodded politely and said, “Thank you.” As the stranger in their midst, it appeared he was expected to take the first bite. Even Clark trained an anxious look on him as he forked up a generous piece of the cake and transferred it to his mouth.

“Well?” Clark prompted as Bruce took his time savoring the flavors and textures, the amalgam of sweet and tangy, crunchy and moist. 

He would have smoothly faked a positive response if necessary. As it happened, falsehoods were unnecessary. “That’s,” he forked up another bite, just to make sure, “really great, Miss Crenshaw. I mean that.”

She beamed her approval at him and everyone else relaxed back in their chairs to enjoy their own cake and coffee. 

Time for gossip now, and Bruce was content to listen as stories were trotted out, familiar and often-told, and likely spruced up a smidge whenever a new set of ears happened by. He watched Clark squirm a bit as some of his youthful escapades were detailed--“For such a good boy,” Miss Hendershott informed Bruce at one point, “our Clark spent an awful lot of time in jail.” She bent a look on the miscreant that hovered somewhere between pride and disapproval. “It was always for a good cause, mind, not like some we could mention,” she added and looked around the table, the other ladies nodding in agreement.

“It has been quieter around here since he started spending more time over in Metropolis,” Miss Crenshaw said, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “Have to say I miss the excitement sometimes.” She’d been scribbling something on a notepad and leaned close to Bruce then, whispering, “This is the recipe for my cake. Mind you don’t tell anyone,” she finished, gaze fixed on Mrs. Wojack as if to imply that lady was the resident recipe thief.

“There’s been some excitement, Loretta,” said Mrs. Wojack, eyes narrowed back at the other woman with suspicion. “That prowler that’s been around,” she elaborated as Clark looked at her and Bruce felt his ears prick up.

“It’s just tramps probably, drifters passing through,” said Mrs. Velez, “but there’s been a few break-ins. It’s mostly been food and some clothes stolen--”

“Got a first aid kit I heard,” said Miss Crenshaw.

“No one’s reported any guns missing, though,” said Miss Robideaux, and crossed herself.

“-- _And_ I found the lock had been jimmied when I went to open the library last Monday,” Mrs. Velez finished up, aiming a stern look around at the ones who had interrupted her.

“Why’d anyone want to break into the library?” asked Miss Hendershott.

“You tell me, Sissy. Didn’t take anything or do any damage.” Mrs. Velez shook her head, unable to fathom what went on with such a person. 

“My Bobby--You remember Bobby?” Mrs. Wojack asked Clark. “Two years behind you in school? Well,” she went on, “he was driving back from Abilene--he’s got a girl there, been lining up job prospects--and he drove past the old Luthor place the other night, said he saw lights and somebody darting out across the road.”

If Clark’s interest in this prowler or tramp had been moderately engaged before, Bruce swore he could see it shoot off the charts at the mention of the old Luthor place. Truth be told, his own interest ticked up quite a bit. He had wondered why one particular spot had been left off the Smallville tour itinerary. 

“Did Bobby stop and take a look around, Mrs. Wojack?”

“He did not. He was raised to have better sense than to go nosing around.” Mrs. Wojack’s manner implied Martha and Jonathan had been lax on that score. “Said the place gave him the creeps.”

“Gave everybody the creeps long before it burned down,” said Mrs. Crenshaw with a knowing look around the table.

No one voiced dissent with this opinion, not even Clark. Curiosity well and truly piqued now, Bruce wondered how to encourage further illuminating conversation on the topic. His usual methods, he suspected, would be frowned upon.

Luck was with him, it seemed. Miss Robideaux stirred her coffee and said, “Remember when we helped cater that party there?” She cast a covert look at Clark before telling Bruce, “It was for Lex Luthor’s engagement to Lana Lang.”

Lana Lang. Bruce did a rapid search through his mental files until he located the name. One-time love of Clark Kent’s life; currently living in Paris, where she was pursuing a career in fashion design. From the way the women stole glances at Clark, one didn’t have to be the World’s Greatest Detective to deduce there had been more than the usual teenage angst and drama going on.

If that angst still resonated, Bruce could detect no trace of it in Clark’s face. A flicker of nostalgia perhaps, but nothing more.

He supposed it was sweet of the women to be concerned, though. And he just wouldn’t pay any attention to the twinge of satisfaction he felt, knowing Clark wasn’t pining for a lost love.

“As if I could ever forget,” said Miss Crenshaw as she took up the tale with a gleam of relish in her eye. “As Kitty said, we were hired as part of the catering staff, doing cakes and pastries. Now, customers always have special requests and instructions. So long as it’s not obscene or in bad taste, I’ve never had a problem.”

“This time was different?” Bruce asked. He sensed there was more to the story and suspected he may have done Miss Crenshaw a disservice in thinking this was a story she enjoyed telling. There was a grim set to her jaw that indicated otherwise.

She met his eyes and nodded, glanced at Clark. “It was the least of what happened that night, I suppose, but it stayed with me a long time.” She took a sip of coffee and pulled a wry face as if she might have liked something stronger. “We’d been told to restrict ourselves to the kitchen and dining room. Parts of the house had even been roped off so we wouldn’t go astray. Well, there’s nothing wrong in wanting to protect your privacy, and I told the girls to mind their business and not go wandering off. I didn’t think anymore of it until I noticed Donna Cooper had disappeared.”

Miss Crenshaw paused to look at Clark. “I don’t know if you remember her,” Clark looked like he was trying to place her but couldn’t pin down the name. “She thought you and your friends just about hung the moon and were better than Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, and was always talking about she wanted to solve mysteries and have adventures too.” 

A pang of guilt crossed Clark’s face as Miss Crenshaw continued. “Well, I should have remembered that before letting her come out to the Luthor house. Or at least kept a closer eye on her.”

Clark leaned forward, as intent as Bruce had ever seen him. “What did Lex do?”

She met his eyes, her own somber with the memory. “He didn’t _do_ anything.” Her fingers tightened around her coffee cup, eased off again. “He just...talked.” She gave Clark a baffled, hapless look, shared it with Bruce. “He just talked. Scared Donna half to death. Me, too, if I’m being honest.” She looked away then, out at a pair of magpies squawking in a crabapple tree.

Mrs. Wojack reached over to pat her arm, and Bruce was struck by how none of the women expressed a glimmer of surprise. Not because the story was as well-known to them as Mrs. Wojack’s trip to Gotham, but because there was nothing remarkable in it. Because it was common knowledge, taken as read, that bad things happened at the creepy old Luthor place. Even Clark only looked relieved that all Lex Luthor had done was _talk_. 

The picture was dramatically altered. Bruce had formed the idea that Smallville had been a charmed and idyllic place to grow up; as different from Gotham as night was from day. Now it felt as though he had been looking at a Norman Rockwell painting as it gradually morphed into a drawing by Edward Gorey.

Miss Crenshaw sighed, drew her attention back and gave Bruce a wry look. “Sounds crazy, right? A silly old woman scared of her own shadow.”

“Not at all, ma’am. You don’t strike me as someone who rattles easily.”

“Always thought that was true.” She looked around at her friends, buoyed by them. “You ever have dealings with him?” She bent a curious look on him, mirrored by the other women--and by Clark.

“Lex? No.” Bruce shook his head. “Lionel and I crossed paths a couple of times.” Clark’s interest perked up at that and Bruce anticipated being peppered with questions later.

“He was a real treat, too,” said Mrs. Wojack, with feeling.

“Well,” Miss Crenshaw tucked a wisp of hair behind an ear and resumed her story, “Donna had slipped past the ropes, gone into the library. Harmless enough, you would think, but Donna couldn’t be content with simply having a look around and then slipping back out. No,” she aimed a look of mild reproach at Clark, “she had to try and dig up secrets. She didn’t even know what she was looking for; likely wouldn’t have recognized it if she’d found anything. That made no never mind to Lex Luthor.

“He caught her at it, of course. Caught her prying open a desk and having a rummage inside. She was holding up some piece of paper and he’d just got hold of her wrist as I found her. He didn’t twist her arm, didn’t squeeze. He just stood there holding her wrist while he told her what happened to girls who spied and lied and stole secrets.”

Gaze far away, she continued as if seeing it all play out again. “She let go of the paper and it fluttered down to the desk. He smiled and looked at her with this,” she searched for the right words, “this triumphant malice--and he just let her go.” She shook her head. “Donna ran past me, crying, looking like she was going to be sick. I made to go after her but he called my name and I looked back at him.” She shivered in the sultry heat. “I’ve never seen anyone look so cold.

“He said he trusted there would be no further incidents and that if I found anymore closed doors, I would leave them that way. Well,” Miss Crenshaw sat back in her chair, “all I could think of was that old story about Bluebeard and his wives, and wondering if dead bodies would come tumbling out if I did open a forbidden door. I was never so glad to get out of place in my life.”

A look flashed in Clark’s eyes like an ignited memory. Had he opened one of those doors and found something better left hidden? 

“I’m glad nothing worse happened,” was all Clark said. Simple enough, but the look in his eyes weighted them with hidden meaning. Guilt chased shame, too, as he added, “I wish I could have helped.”

“Well, you were busy that night,” Miss Crenshaw said. She patted his hand. “You can’t be everywhere, Clark.”

Tempting to read hidden meaning into those words as well, Bruce found. These women, certainly Miss Crenshaw, would have watched Clark grow up, they could have easily noticed things over the years. He couldn’t ask, though, and he had a conviction they wouldn’t tell, so that was that.

It did occur to him to wonder where he and Clark would be today if not for the secrecy he had insisted on. They had known each other all this time, yet in so any ways they were like a roughly drawn map with whole swaths of territory marked _Terra incognita_. Some inroads had been made today, a few expeditions embarked upon and discoveries made; it was a start.

The coffee klatch began breaking up then, Miss Crenshaw chastising them for letting her ramble on so long, “And about Lex Luthor of all things.” 

The women departed amid reminders to be sure and tell Jonathan and Martha they were keeping them in their thoughts and prayers, and how if Clark needed help with the harvest he was just to holler, and then, as suddenly as they had appeared the women were gone. 

Silence shimmered in the air as Clark and Bruce sat down on the front porch steps. A Golden Retriever, going white around the muzzle, padded over to them and rested its head on Clark’s thigh with a deep sigh of satisfaction. “This is Shelby,” Clark said.

“Hello, Shelby.” 

The dog raised its head to look at him and didn’t flinch as Bruce reached over to scratch one ear. “Who’s a good dog? I bet you are,” Bruce said and glanced up to catch Clark looking on in disbelief. “Yes, now you know my other secret.”

Solemn manner at war with the laughter in his eyes, Clark held up a hand as though swearing an oath. “I’ll guard it with my life.”

He probably would, too.

Bruce looked out across the yard, the fields, a breeze stirring the late afternoon landscape, and let the quiet seep into him. Not silence, not with the birds and buzz of insects, chickens scratching, far away a rumble of traffic; no urgency in those sounds, though, nothing frantic or fearful. He felt dangerously close to getting used to it, to liking the idea of it.

“I like it here,” he admitted. “I like your groupies.”

Clark hmphed, underscored it with a look. “They were probably here to get a look at you.”

“Hhn.” He leaned against the porch railing as the dog crowded between them and rested its head in his lap. “So are going to tell me?”

“About? Have you got dog biscuits in your pockets?”

“Do I look like I go around with dog biscuits in my pockets?”

Clark considered this, clearly stalling.

So Bruce prodded him. “About why you couldn’t save the day and keep Lex from scaring Miss Crenshaw and Debbie Cooper.”

“Donna Cooper.” Still pensive, Clark shrugged. “I was...sort of not myself.”

Bruce quirked his eyebrows. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning...” Clark narrowed his eyes at him. As there was no accompanying red glow, Bruce considered himself safe and patiently waited. Clark pulled a face, stared out across the fields. “It was Valentine’s Day. There was this woman called Star. She gave Lois a tube of magic lipstick. When Lois kissed me it sort of...” He made a frustrated sound. “You know what happens when I’m exposed to red kryptonite?”

Vividly. “That’s what was in the lipstick?”

Embarrassed after all these years, Clark nodded. “We crashed Lex and Lana’s engagement party and made a scene. It was downhill from there.”

Bruce could sympathize; there were a few escapades in his past he would as soon forget. All done in the spirit of making certain no one would ever connect ‘Brucie’ Wayne to Batman, but still.

Intrigued, he skewed around a bit to look at Clark. “Lois was affected, too?”

Clark shrugged. “I don’t know. Star said it was magic.”

“And we know you’re susceptible to that. Did you already know that?”

“Nope, not until Zatanna came along. Everything was like that, every lesson a hard one. Which kind of kryptonite did what, the consequences and repercussions when a new power manifested that I didn’t know how to handle.”

“If it’s any consolation, puberty’s a bitch for everyone”

“Huh.” Clark gave him a dubious look. “Did you set the classroom on fire because the hot new teacher made your heat vision kick in?”

Bruce winced in sympathy. “I’ll grant you, you may have faced a unique variation on the usual challenges.”

“Got that right,” Clark grumbled. But then, because he was Clark, he smiled and nudged Bruce with his shoulder. “Pa figured out the trigger right off. He thought it was hilarious.”

“I don’t think Alfred would have been amused in similar circumstances.”

“Alfred’s your...?”

“My butler.” Bruce grimaced at the inadequacy of that. “Majordomo? Factotum?” He shook his head at his own nonsense. “He’s kept me together since...my parents died.” 

Clark nodded thoughtful, likely reviewing all the facts on public record re: Bruce Wayne. “Always with your complete cooperation?”

“Not often.” Bruce thought about it, blew out a huff. “Not ever, actually.” He glanced at Clark. “You’ll see a picture of him if you look up ‘long-suffering’ in the dictionary.” He thought about it a moment and added, “And another one under ‘snarky.’”

Clark smiled some more. “I’d like to meet him.”

Bruce gave him a long, considering look. “I have this feeling that’s going to happen.”

And wasn’t that a revelation? Disclosures all over the place these days.

“You’re going over to the creepy old Luthor place?”

“Think I’d better, yeah.” Clark got to his feet. “You coming?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. We taking the dog?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course they take the dog...
> 
> Up next: We visit the Luthor mansion, and then there's that never-appeared-on-Smallville supervillain...


End file.
